


lay me down

by usuallysunny



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Comfort Sex, Established Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt Lucifer, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Post-Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: He’s quiet as the bed dips under his weight.It doesn’t matter what he wants from her—she’ll give him anything. She’ll hold him for hours, threading her fingers through his hair. If he wants a different sort of comfort, fuelled by red-hot anger at the unfairness of it all, she’ll spread her legs for him and let him take his salvation there.She doesn’t ask if he’s okay; it’s a pointless question.He’s not okay, she’s not okay—because Linda is gone.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 23
Kudos: 298





	lay me down

Lucifer’s quiet as the bed dips under his weight—but he surrounds her in a cloud of whiskey and smoke.

Chloe’s not sure how to react, what he wants from her, so she stays silent and keeps her eyes closed. Even so, she can feel tears burning behind them, that tell-tale stinging sensation behind her temples and the bridge of her nose.

It doesn’t really matter _what_ he wants from her, she thinks—she’ll give him anything. She’ll hold him for hours, threading her fingers through his hair and keeping him anchored against her chest. If he wants a different sort of comfort, fuelled by red-hot anger at the unfairness of it all, she’ll spread her legs for him and let him take his salvation there. She’ll babble about mindless shit that doesn’t matter just to fill the aching silence, or she’ll say nothing at all.

Anything to stop him hurting.

She’s been in his bed, waiting for him to return, for hours she can’t even count. He'd gone straight from the wake to Linda's, practically holding up a numb Amenadiel, and her heart aches when she thinks of how very quiet the house must be now.

Linda had filled it with so much love and laughter and now she was just _gone—_ and it didn't make _sense_.

She waits still.

Eventually, his arm snakes its way around her waist. It’s heavy—he’s not a small man, after-all—but the weight of it around her is pleasant and welcomed. She sighs and lets her palm gently sweep up his forearm, clutching around his elbow like he’s an anchor keeping her from sinking into despair.

 _Selfless to a nauseating degree_ , he’d once called her, and it _does_ take her a moment to register she’s hurting too. She’s so used to pushing it down in an effort to help others, the resurgence of it hits her square in the chest. She feels sick, like she’s breathing in shards of glass with every painful inhale.

The air is hot and thin between them as he stays silent but buries his nose in her hair. She feels him take a deep, steadying breath, and she strokes his arm in a gesture she hopes is comforting.

She doesn’t ask if he’s okay; it seems like a pointless question.

He’s not okay, _she’s_ not okay—because Linda is gone.

Her heart lurches when she thinks of Maze, who loved her so fiercely, and then plummets to the pit of her stomach when she thinks of Amenadiel and little Charlie. She even thinks of Adriana Nassar and mourns for her, feeling grief that she will never know her mother, never know Linda’s strength and the light she carried with her. She remembers how excited Linda had been to find her, all the plans she had made for when she finally found the courage to tell her who she was.

Chloe grieves all the lost possibilities, as well as the loss itself.

She mourns for the man curled behind her, the movement of his solid chest a little uneven at her back, as he holds her so gently it’s like he fears she’ll break apart, slip through his fingers and vanish into the dark.

She shifts and tightens her grip to remind him she’s _here_ —she’s alive and she’s not going anywhere and she loves him.

She remembers a time when he flinched at a hug, his body pulling taut and stiff. It was normally Trixie or Ella giving them and his reactions would fluctuate from uncomfortable to downright distressed. In the beginning, even _her_ hugs, in her kitchen when he said her father would be proud of her, or when she curled into him reeking of alcohol and regret, had been met with surprise and trepidation.

Intimacy sans clothes, he could do. _Sex_ was a different ballgame. Lucifer Morningstar was seduction personified, all desire and charm wrapped up in an expensive three piece suit. He wore a smile like a weapon, coaxing desires and moulding even the most stubborn of people like clay, into just the shapes he wanted them. He was the sort of man who commanded attention, in control of a room’s energy, and he’d had sex with _everyone_ , in every _way_ , and yet a simple hug—he didn’t know these rules. 

Now, he holds her without question, and Chloe’s chest feels too tight because Linda is at least part of the reason why.

Sitting opposite him in that therapist’s chair, she had broken down his barriers. She had listened with her typical patience and grace as she weaved out his psychological damage, the fact that nobody had shown him real affection in millennia, and he must feel so untethered without her.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe whispers into the darkness, her throat hoarse from disuse and so many tears, “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t reply, but his grip on her tightens, his fingers biting at her waist. His body shifts against her, the crisp white shirt he wore for the funeral rubbing against her and matching the one she’s wearing, oversized and also his. His breath is hot across her ear, his lips brushing the shell, and the atmosphere thrums between them like a living thing.

There’s a little catch to his breath, a sharpness, and she feels it in the way the solid muscle of his chest caves in against her back. 

She can practically _feel_ his pain, rolling off him in hot waves. It’s a vulnerability that, for once, has nothing to do with her, and tears sting behind her eyes again.

He drops a slow, hot kiss to the side of her neck and gently rolls her over. Her mind sparks with understanding as he does so and she’s unsurprised _this_ is how he seeks his comfort. It’s something he knows, something ancient and primal, and she’s all too happy to oblige. She spreads her thighs and cradles him between them.

He’s shed his black jacket, the one Maze had clung to as Linda was lowered into the ground, bunching the material in fists as she’d sobbed he should have saved her. He’d stared blankly, letting himself be moved and doing nothing to stop her. He hadn’t worn a waistcoat so it’s just the buttons of his shirt Chloe has to contend with and she tries to ignore the way her hands shake as she pushes it off his shoulders.

It floats to the floor, forgotten, and she finally glances up to meet his eyes.

Half bathed in moonlight from the window, he looks handsome and strong and so very, _very_ tired.

His eyes are stormy and dark, pupils blown to black, but it's a sort of broken desperation rather than lust. Chloe swallows and fumbles with his belt next, pulling it out of the loops and letting it join his shirt.

The clink of the buckle as the metal hits the floor breaks the heated silence. She holds his gaze, heavy and significant, her breath quickening and her heart pounding against her chest, as she helps him remove his trousers and boxers too.

They don’t bother undressing her. She merely spreads her legs a little wider and her eyelids flutter at the sensation of his hands stroking up her thighs. They eventually disappear under the hem of her— _his_ —white shirt. He leans back to hook his fingers around the waistband of her panties and slowly drag them down her legs.

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth as she watches his expression, melancholy and sad with his jaw locked tight, but still _desperate_ for her.

It’s like he wants to take comfort in the one thing that still makes sense—her love for him, his devotion for her. When all else fails and waivers and rots, they will always have this.

He settles between her legs, his deft fingers dipping between her thighs and finding her hot and wet for him. She always wants him, but it’s not about that, it’s not about being horny or desire in any traditional sense—it’s fuelled by a need to know they’re _alive_. The hurt resonates between them, covering them like a blanket, but they’re warm and real and they’re still here.

His hands are soft as his fingers thrum against her clit, playing her like the piano he mastered years ago, before two slickly push inside her. She gasps softly and arches into him. She’s seen his hands punch and fight and rip apart enemies, and she saw them tremble as they held Linda’s broken body, yet they’re still sosoft.

“Kiss me,” she whispers because he hasn’t done that yet and she needs to feel his lips against hers.

He leans down to capture her lips gently, his fingers still pumping languidly inside her. He crooks them in a come hither motion, just how he’s come to learn she likes, and he swallows her gasp with another kiss. His mouth slots over hers, his tongue coaxing her lips open and licking inside.

She can feel his erection hot and hard against her inner thigh and then she feels it jump and pulse against her cunt as he pulls his fingers away and lines himself up with her dripping entrance.

He kisses her again as he slides inside her and home.

Chloe arches her back, spreading her legs wider for him so she can wrap them around him. He finally makes a sound—a thick growl that rumbles from the back of his throat—as he hooks one arm under her thigh and hitches it higher on his hip.

She has to tear her mouth away to moan, his cock thick and hard and hitting the perfect spot inside her. She returns her mouth to his jaw, planting soft kisses on the underside. She loops her arms around him and holds on tight.

Her lips slide over the grit of stubble and she can taste tears—his or hers, she’s not sure—and a surge of love overwhelms her.

She thinks he feels it too because his neck muscles begin to unwind under her touch and his hips snap a little faster. He’s breathless and panting, but so is she, and she leans up to kiss him again. It’s all tongues, teeth, heat and passion and they’ve been together for a while now, but they’ve never fucked quite like this. There’s never been this sense of urgency, sheer desperation spilling from their fingertips, a frantic need to show each other they’re alive.

In the darkness, his eyes are glassy and black, and she wants more than anything to make the hurt go away.

She wants him to know how much Linda cared about him, how she respected him and above all, how very _proud_ she was of him. She had been the first human to truly see him, to _know_ him. She hadn’t run away. Sometimes Chloe thinks there’s not a person alive who knew him like Linda Martin knew him. She had a piece of him that Chloe can’t touch, and she places a hand against his chest, over his heart, and grieves for that piece now gone forever.

There’s no thinking on his part. His breath falls in raspy pants, deep groans and thick growls, as he pounds into her harder. He’s all animal now, but not devil. He’s still strong and good and she won’t let that slip away in the darkness. She knows his default mode is denial and self-sabotage, but she won’t let him run. She won’t let him undo all the good Linda has done. She holds on tight and lets him take what he needs.

She wants him to feel and let it all go.

 _She_ wants to let go too. She has to remind herself her feelings and her loss are valid too. She needs this too.

“Harder,” she rasps over the slick slaps of their bodies, breaking the silence, “fuck me harder.”

He grunts his assent, both hands clamping down on her hips as his cock slides out, the head kissing her clit, before he pushes back in to the hilt. It’s deep in a way that’s almost painful, his pelvis grinding against hers, and her lips fall open in a broken moan. He slams into her, setting a pace that leaves her breathless. She holds on tight for the ride, her nails digging into the thick, banded muscles of his back.

Her thighs are trembling, her body covered in a thin layer of sweat, her heart in her throat. His bare chest brushes against her shirt with every thrust, the material rubbing against her sensitive nipples. She pulls his hair and makes him hiss, a flash of white as he sucks in a breath over his teeth.

She can feel his cock pulsing and swelling inside her, his orgasm drawing near. She clenches around him, her wet channel hot and tight, and bites his shoulder, and for the first time in their relationship (and probably his very long life), Lucifer comes first.

She holds him as he fractures apart, her hands on his back rising and falling with the shudder tracing his spine. She feels his come fill her, releasing in warm, long spurts into her body, and she shivers, her thighs still shaking. She clamps them around his hips, keeping him inside her, not allowing any of his love to spill out, as she plants soft kisses along his jaw.

He’s still shaking a while later, her fingers trailing absentmindedly down his back. She’s more than content to fall asleep like this, threading her fingers through his sweat slicked hair and holding him to her, but eventually his mouth is moving against her neck.

He kisses her there before he trails his lips down to the hollow of her throat and then sucks a bloom into her collarbone. She realises what he’s doing when he finally rips the shirt from her body, quite literally tearing it at the seams and letting scraps of fabric fall to the floor. Then his mouth is on her breast, his teeth tugging at a dusty rose nipple, and she realises she should have known better than to think the devil would let her get away without an orgasm or two—under any circumstances.

She moans, her fingers still floating through black curls, as he pays similar attention to the other nipple. He flicks it into a stiff peak with his tongue before capturing it between his teeth. She feels wetness begin to seep onto her inner thighs again, her pulse pounding between her aching legs.

He kisses his way down her body, over her taut belly and the thin, silvery lines from where she birthed Trixie, and finally slips his mouth between her thighs.

She chokes out a broken moan as he spreads her legs wider for him, the metal of his ring digging into her wet skin. He glances up at her, pupils flashing bright red this time, and she fights back a sob at the fiery eye contact. He lays the flat of his tongue against her before slowly stroking it up and down.

She revels in the thick growl that rumbles from his chest, the noise vibrating against her cunt. His tongue slides to her entrance, lapping up the mixture of her juices and his own essence that's leaking out of her. He doesn’t seem to care, his lips fused to her, his fingers coming up to join. He slides two inside, his tongue travelling to her clit. It pulses under his tongue, her thighs shaking around his head.

She practically sobs his name, arching her back. Her fingers thread through his hair, tugging slightly and making him groan. One hand on her belly pins her down while the other slips out of her and digs into her inner thigh, keeping her spread for him. His mouth never unlatches from her as he reads her like a book, eating messily, the sounds crude and sensual, serving only to stoke her desire. 

She feels that hot ball of desire curl at the base of her spine. She bucks against him and her thighs instinctively close around his head. He gently pulls them open again, his licks and sucks merciless, and with one more lash of his tongue, she fractures apart.

A strangled sob rips from her throat, liquid pleasure scorching through her. Through the haze, she registers him wiping his mouth across the inside of her thigh before he’s _there_ again, on top of her, with her. He kisses her and she tastes herself on his tongue.

She notices he’s trembling again and with his mouth buried in her neck, he _finally_ murmurs—

“I love you.”

She freezes, the words hitting her square in the chest.

He must sense her reaction because he pulls back, his eyes dark and intense.

“I should have said it before. I was afraid and now I can’t remember why…” his voice is husky and low, laced with pain, and Linda's ghost stretches out in the aching gap between them, “…it all pales in comparison to the fear of losing you.”

She feels a tremble in her bottom lip, her love for him so intense, it's almost painful.

“You’re not going to lose me,” she says fiercely, gently cupping his cheek.

She can’t promise that, not really. She’s mortal and he isn’t and one day, he _will_ lose her. She’ll grow old while he won’t and she wouldn’t switch places for the world. But if losing Linda has taught her anything, it's that tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and you have to say these things while you still can.

“Don’t leave me,” he begs then, his tone a little desperate.

“Never,” she whispers.

“Chloe,” he breathes like a prayer, the rare use of her real name causing tears to strangle her throat, “my Chloe.”

“Yes,” she says, her thumb swiping across his high cheekbone, “ _yours_.”

“Stay.”

He turns his face to place a kiss against her palm.

“Always,” she promises.

**Author's Note:**

> That was so angsty, I'm so sorry😭 I blame the lockdown. 
> 
> I purposefully didn't go into Linda's death as I wanted to keep it ambiguous. The fic was more about how Chloe and Lucifer deal with it. I absolutely adore Linda, she's one of my favourite characters so this was really painful to write. This obviously isn't canon, and I hope it won't be, but I have a horrible feeling Linda might die in Season 5B/6? What do we think? 
> 
> As always, keep safe my loves <3


End file.
